


Let Me Count The Ways

by cosmosmariner



Series: Distant Voices 'Verse [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E.
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Napoleon is a sap monster, Poetry, Romantic Gestures, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, and Illya secretly loves it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-06
Updated: 2014-06-06
Packaged: 2018-02-03 14:52:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1748552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmosmariner/pseuds/cosmosmariner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon is a born romantic with a poet’s soul. Illya secretly adores it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Count The Ways

**Author's Note:**

> originally posted to my writing journal 2/13/11

February 14, 1976

The living room was festooned with roses; red, white, yellow, pink. Every available vase was filled with the flowers. The fragrance lingered through the air in a way that followed one from room to room. Illya shook his head. Napoleon’s appreciation for romance was sometimes overwhelming, but secretly he loved the grand gesture of a room full of roses.

He called for his partner, but soon realized that he was not in the apartment. They had plans to go to the Clearwater Inn for a romantic evening of candlelight and sparkling wine. Since Napoleon had come back into his life, he did not take for granted the little things that his lover, his friend, did for him every day. Walking into their bedroom, he saw more of the flowers, carefully stripped of their thorns and placed on the bed. A handwritten note on thick, ivory cardstock laid beside it.

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways._

“Oh, Napoleon,” Illya laughed, muttering to himself. “You are too much.”

He stripped naked, walked into the bathroom. Illya wanted a hot shower to strip away the stress of the morning - he had spent most of the morning grading tests in his office on campus even though it was a Saturday. He bent down to turn on the hot water tap when he saw another note in Napoleon’s bold hand.

_I love thee to the depth and breadth and height_  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. 

A small arrow was drawn at the bottom. Illya turned the card over and saw a note.

_Illya, I have found that I can climb higher, go farther, love deeper because of you. You have lifted my soul to a place that no one else ever has._

“Pasha, I could bore a hole in you and watch the sap run out,“ Illya groaned. He took the card out of the tub and proceeded to turn the tap on for a shower.

After the shower, he went back into the bedroom and laid out a black turtleneck and a pair of grey slacks. Napoleon had always liked him in a pair of tailored grey slacks, and although he had filled out over the years, he still kept himself as fit as possible.

He went to get a pair of socks out of the drawer when he saw another note card.

_I love thee to the level of everyday's  
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light._

He turned the card around and saw that Napoleon had written another note. _You are more than my most quiet need. You are the star by which I guide my ship. I need you in every way, every moment._

He took his overnight bag that he had packed the day before and put the three cards into it. One last look around the apartment to make sure that he did not forget anything, and then he left. A cab was waiting outside for him since the Clearwater Inn was on the other side of the lake.

Illya walked up to the front desk and asked if Mr. Solo had checked in. The clerk said yes, gave him his key and room number. For the sake of appearances, they had adjoining rooms, but they did not intend to use both of them. He entered into his room and saw more flowers and a box of chocolates. Napoleon must have sweet talked his way into the room, using his vaunted charm on someone, no doubt.

He took his shoes off, unpacked his suitcase, ate a piece of chocolate. Illya then walked to the shared door and knocked.

“Come in, partner mine.”

Illya opened the door to find Napoleon in a burgundy brocade robe, candles burning, champagne on ice. “Napoleon… you’ve really poured on the charm tonight.”

The brunet laughed and held out a blue robe to his lover. “No more than you deserve, gorgeous. You want to slip into something a bit more comfortable? To match your eyes?” he asked, his voice slipping into a low, husky timbre.

Illya did as he was asked, then walked back into the bedroom. Napoleon handed him a chilled glass of champagne. “To us.”

“To us.”

They drank deep of the vintage, then Napoleon grabbed Illya’s hand and kissed his palm. “Have I told you today that I love you?”

“Yes, you have. A few times. You’ve written it down, as well.”

Napoleon’s eyes twinkled as he pulled his friend close. “Ah, but you see, there’s so much more I need to show you, tell you, my Illyusha. _I love thee freely, as men strive for Right._ I do love you freely, as free as I ever have before. And I will freely give myself to you.”

“Napoleon, I…”

He put his finger on Illya’s lips. “Shhh. Wait. _I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise._ Illya, my love for you has been purified by fire and by rain, the heat of my desire for you and the sorrow of our parting.”

“I know, Napoleon, but…”

Napoleon‘s voice grew stronger as he recited the rest of the poem. “ _I love thee with a passion put to use in my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose with my lost saints._ When we were apart… I can’t tell you how I felt. I thought I had lost my way, when I lost you. But now I’ll love you with all the passion and fire that I had put into finding you again. Even more.”

Illya smiled. He looked into those sparkling dark eyes as Napoleon continued, “ _I love thee with the breath, smiles, tears, of all my life!_ And I will, Illya. Starting right now, until the moment I take my last breath. I love you.“

The blond reached up, put his hand behind Napoleon’s head and kissed him tenderly. He spoke softly in Napoleon’s ear. “Pasha, you’re indulging in poetry and romance again.”

The brunet slid his hands down Illya’s back and cupped his bottom. He nuzzled the blond hair with his nose, breathed deeply of his scent. “I have five years of indulgence to catch up on. Do you mind?”

Illya smiled despite himself. “No. I suppose I can permit a little sentimentality.”

“After all, it’s Valentine’s Day.”

They kissed again, and again, the verbal poetry giving way to the fluidity of their bodies intertwined.

Later that evening, after Napoleon had fallen asleep, Illya looked at his friend. “Pasha, you‘ve forgotten the most important part of the poem,” he whispered. “ _and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death._ “

  
**Sonnet 43**

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of being and ideal grace.  
I love thee to the level of every day's  
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.  
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.  
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.  
I love thee with the passion put to use  
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.  
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose  
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,  
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,  
I shall but love thee better after death.

\--Elizabeth Barrett Browning, _Sonnets From the Portuguese_  


FIN

**Author's Note:**

> dedicated to my dear friend Svetlanacat4, on the merry occasion of her birthday. :)


End file.
